


Running Errands

by LeDiz



Series: The 48: NCIS [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gen, Gibbs figures it out fic, The Frog Arc, Unfinished, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeDiz/pseuds/LeDiz
Summary: The team is starting to get worried about where Tony's going on his errands. Gibbs has had enough of the lies. He's going to work it out tonight.





	

Y-Pestus, she said she was researching. Like he didn’t know what it was when he saw the image on her screen. Like he would ever forget that technicolour mouldy bread staring at him, mocking him, killing his agent.

            Patients can relapse years after recovery, she had pointed out. Like he hadn’t heard Doctor Pitt explain all of that to Tony. Like he would ever forget standing outside the hospital room, eavesdropping and hating Tony for being able to joke about all the colds, coughs, bugs, allergies, headcolds and viruses that had suddenly become fatal illnesses.

            Tony had been visiting the hospital, she told him. Getting tests. Wearing a hospital bracelet. Like he hadn’t noticed every single goddamn _one_ of those things!

            He slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. Tony. It was Tony. DiNozzo. DiNozzo was always fine. Always. Hell, he could be chained to a serial killer—feel real affection for a serial killer—and still walk away just fine.

            So what if Gibbs had run off to Mexico with nothing more than a “You’ll do”? So what if the team had treated Tony like crap while Gibbs was gone? So what if he’d formed a relationship with Jenny? So what if he was running errands for her? That didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with the plague. Y-pestus. Relapses.

            What did any of that have to do with anything, actually? Tony was DiNozzo and DiNozzo was always fine. Always.

            So what if Tony flinched every time he raised his hand now? So what if Tony wouldn’t meet his gaze without that nervous, wandering smile? So what if Gibbs had practically invited Franks to give Tony a concussion? So what if…

            So what if Tony didn’t trust him anymore?

            It wasn’t like Tony would hide an illness from them. What would be the point? It wasn’t like… it wasn’t as if Tony thought they would get rid of him if he were sick.

            That was just ridiculous, because Gibbs knew Tony was DiNozzo, and DiNozzo was always fine. Even with only a fifteen percent chance of survival. Tony… DiNozzo was always fine.

            And, he decided as he pulled up in front of Tony’s apartment building, he could prove that by barging in on the idiot. Coitus Interuptus. Yeah. Yeah, that was the only reason he was feeling even mildly hesitant. He’d seen DiNozzo naked more than enough times already.

            It wasn’t until he stepped into the carpark that he realised he hadn’t intended to come there. Hell, he’d been headed home.

            He pushed that thought out of his head as he strode past DiNozzo’s empty parking space. He needed to make sure DiNozzo wasn’t going to be pulling any disappearing acts tomorrow. Or after that. He didn’t need a part-time senior field agent. He was going to drum that into DiNozzo’s head. You work for me, you put in the hours. That’s what he’d say.

            As could only be expected in this building, the elevator was apparently down for maintenance, and Gibbs took the stairs two at a time. It was always a good idea to make DiNozzo work for your respect. Make him think his job was in jeopardy. Rivalry kept the kid on his toes; fear made for his best work. That – _that_ was why he acted the way he did. And Tony knew that. It wasn’t like Tony would actually hide an illness from him because he thought Gibbs would fire him for any weakness.

            If Gibbs fumbled on the lock-picks, it was only because he was standing too close to the door. And he was only doing that because he knew Tony had nosy neighbours that would notice he didn’t have a key. If they looked. Which they might have.

            Tony’s place was clean. Too clean. Maids were good, but this was… sterile. The place was sterile. Like the clean room. Gibbs could remember that lack of scent. It had driven Tony crazy. He’d barely been able to sleep, even when he wasn’t coughing. But it was good for him, Pitt had explained.

            The bathroom cabinet was empty. Hair gel, mouthwash, toothpaste, some kind of sparkly mousse stuff he vaguely remembered Tony wearing undercover once. Under the sink were cleaning products, toilet rolls, the first aid kit. The kit was full of bandages, disinfectant, plasters, thread, scissors, medical emergency _stuff_! He shoved it back into the cupboard without resealing it and stood up, kicking the door closed.

            Tony’s bedroom had never been so interesting as you might expect from a lothario—Gibbs personally thought he probably had a more creative sex life than DiNozzo—but some of the things in his cabinets were only to be expected from… well, any adult, really. Under normal circumstances, a few of them might have raised Gibbs’ eyebrows, but right now he didn’t give a damn. He threw aside a copy of _Deep Six_ and three _National Geographic_ magazines, shoved a biography of Oscar Wilde to the back of the drawer and tossed a book on Russian film across the room. His hands stilled on the sides of the drawer as they found a ventilator.

            It didn’t matter how well he recovered, Pitt had said firmly. Unless he took to doing everything inside, behind a desk, Tony would need a ventilator in the winter months. He as good as had asthma now. He had to be careful.

            Gibbs slammed the drawer shut.

            The kitchen was surprisingly well stocked, in a way Gibbs never expected from Tony. He knew the man could cook—when he wanted to—but every other time he’d been here, there were only condiments and tinned food. The kind of thing that lasted for months. A drawer filled with asprin and old medications made Gibbs’ hands move a little faster, but he only found an inhaler and a bunch of bottles with the labels ripped off.

            That made him stop, pulling out his glasses so he could see better. Tony had never been one to pick at labels, the way Gibbs might have expected from someone as fidgety as him. He was too finicky about keeping things as they had always been. He even kept the caps of his beer bottles, replacing them after he’d finished the drink. Yet these pill bottles all had damaged labels. Ripped and torn. He couldn’t even make out Tony’s name on most of them.

            He set down the bottles and looked around the kitchen, his eyes searching out differences from the last time he’d been here. A thought made him check the coffee mugs, and he frowned when he couldn’t find the NYPD mug.

            It was a joke, Tony had explained. He would never work anywhere near Long Island, particularly not for the NYPD, so of course some of his buddies from the academy decided to send him the mug after they transferred there. Like his fraternity jacket, the mug was important to Tony, even if he never drank out of it.

            There was no child’s drawing on the refrigerator. Despite his less than perfect relationship with his father, Tony still spoke to his cousins, who had children. Tony had been slightly embarrassed when Gibbs saw the lop-sided figure pointing a gun at a man in black and white stripes. But he’d also mentioned the picture was old. He hadn’t taken it down for the same reason Gibbs kept that family picture Kelly drew, almost eighteen years ago, pinned behind his desk.

            In its place was a list of names, each one with a tick, star or line through it. On another sheet of paper, he recognised the names of a bunch of film directors Tony had mentioned in passing, mixed in with a few others, from varying nationalities. Another listed dates.

            He moved into the living room, belatedly realising it, too, was different from what he remembered. The record player was gone, along with all the vinyls that had once held pride of place in the room. A bookshelf filled with DVDs and videos took its place.

            There were no magazines on the coffee table, but several folders and a laptop were spread across its surface. Gibbs slowly lowered himself to the couch to investigate, his brow furrowing when he found what looked like some kind of research project spelled out in one of the folders. Another was filled with Tony’s near illegible shorthand. Years of snooping through Tony’s files had taught Gibbs how to translate that, though. The last was written in Tony’s own note taking style – shorthand that switched between English, Spanish and Italian, with quick diagrams and sketches thrown in across the pages. This was something he didn’t want anyone reading.

            He didn’t have a chance in hell of comprehending that. No one did, except Tony himself.

            Instead, Gibbs focussed on the first two folders. The research seemed to follow a week-by-week basis of film study, branching across genres and nationalities. The shorthand seemed to follow the same basic guideline, but each page made reference to a different person’s interpretation of the films.

            He put them both down carefully, and walked back through the bathroom, into the bedroom. The bedspread was different, he noted as he picked up the Russian film book. The curtains were made of heavier material. He opened the cupboard, his eyes immediately searching for the black uniform that had always hung there. When he couldn’t find it, he instead looked for the red and white jacket Tony loved so much.

            All he could find was a fluffy new sweater from American University.

            There were no photos. No albums. No sports magazines. No letters. No casefiles.

            He made his way back to the living room and opened the laptop. After an hour, he shut it down again and sat back, letting it all filter through his mind.

            After two, the front door opened, and Gibbs remained perfectly still, just watching as Tony glanced around the door, his eyebrows rising in surprise but not shock when he saw Gibbs.

            “Hi,” he said blankly, slowly stepping into the apartment. He didn’t close the door behind him. “Thought I saw your car out there. What’re you doing here?”

            Gibbs just kept watching. Now he was looking, Tony looked tired. He looked his age. Older, even. He was all stiff lines and nervous energy.

            “You know, I wasn’t even sure I was gonna come home tonight,” Tony continued, as if he hadn’t asked an unanswered question. “You coulda been waiting here for… how long have you been waiting here?”

            Instead of answering, Gibbs rose to his feet, making Tony’s shoulders roll back to their full width. For some reason, Tony was always more comfortable when he was the only one standing. It wasn’t a superiority thing – Tony looked far more powerful when he was lounged back in a chair, and he knew that full well. When Gibbs stood, Tony always metaphorically backpedalled.

            “We… we got another case?” Tony asked hopefully. “Sorry I wasn’t answering my cell… it’s been kind of… um…”

            “I don’t have a case, DiNozzo,” he murmured, and stepped around the coffee table to move in close. He could smell Tony’s night on his skin and clothes. Sweat and sex. He fought the urge to react. “Do you?”

            Tony glanced away for a split second. “Uh, no, Boss, I… I don’t think so.”

            “Took off early tonight,” he observed.

            “Yeah, I –”

            “Running errands for the director?”

            It wasn’t clearly visible, but something in Tony shifted. “Yeah.”

            “Need to know,” he assumed, and Tony nodded.

            “Yeah.”

            “You were running errands for the director tonight.”

            Tony opened his mouth, then stopped. Tony was too good an undercover cop to not know how he smelled. He glanced away again, and didn’t look back. “I was off-duty, Gibbs.”

            He couldn’t help but notice the use of his name, just as he couldn’t help but notice the fact Tony still hadn’t closed the door. “Tony.”

            “Yeah, Boss?”

            “Tony,” he repeated, more firmly. Slowly, Tony’s eyes lifted to meet his own. He tilted his head. “Tell me you weren’t doing something for the director tonight.”

            He licked his lips, his eyes edging off to the side but too caught by Gibbs’ stare to leave his face. Gibbs felt his jaw clench.

            No. That was… DiNozzo—no, _Tony_ —couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t do that. Tony wasn’t good for solo, longterm undercover missions because he always got too attached to his roles. And that was just when he was supposed to pretend to like the people he was acting in front of. That thing with Jeffery White… they’d barely been friends, and Tony had nearly lost it over him. When things moved beyond friendship… Hell, Voss hadn’t been more than a few hours—a damn quick and dirty undercover stint on the fly—and Tony had still lost himself in Stringfellow, just because Voss had put a goddamn hand on his thigh.

            Sex was far beyond crossing one of Tony’s invisible lines. There would be no break from this.

            God, the kid looked old.

 ...

**Author's Note:**

> The 48 are a collection of unfinished and/or pointless fics saved to my hard drive, now posted to Ao3 for people's interest or in case they want to adopt them.
> 
> Like a lot of people that were Tony-fans from the first season, I was a little bitter with how much Gibbs ended up staying out of the whole Frog thing. And started to write my own behind-the-scenes thing about it. And then season six happened and it continued on, and my interest in the series eventually waned completely. But I still have quite a few fics sitting around, so I'll post them now. Apologies to newer fans for the spam.


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